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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274139">Notte in bianco</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spider___lily/pseuds/spider___lily'>spider___lily</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A spider's thread [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Again, Angel Dust-Typical Sexual Content (Hazbin Hotel), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugged Sex, F/F, Gore, Graphic Description, Hurt Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Valentino Bashing (Hazbin Hotel), Valentino Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), ffs give me tranquilizers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:00:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274139</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spider___lily/pseuds/spider___lily</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Notte in bianco</em><br/><em>idiom</em><br/><em>[feminine]</em><br/><em>/’nɔtːe in ’bjanko/</em><br/><em>[italian]</em><br/><em>A sleepless night, an all-nighter</em><br/><em>Literal translation: a night in white</em><br/> </p><p>"He was safe. It was late at night, he was at the Hotel and no one would willingly touch him that way, but he still felt the other's touch on his skin, and it burned like liquefied magma, slowly flowing in his veins.</p><p>He'd honestly never felt that pathetic."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>- Unhealthy Relationship, Angel Dust/Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Charlie Magne/Vaggie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A spider's thread [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Notte in bianco</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, hello! Welcome to the third part of this series, although this can still be read as a standalone one shot, in case the other stories don't really suit your tastes!</p><p>Now, a couple of trigger warnings:<br/>• there is a scene of pretty graphic non-con, which ends in gore, that has been highlighted in italics. It can be absolutely skipped, don't worry. However, non-con will be discussed multiple times in the following paragraphs.<br/>• panic attacks<br/>• there are many instances of victim self-blaming and justified abuse (abuse is never justified, but that's how victims' brains react under that kind of psychological pressure)<br/>• discussions of poverty, racism, sex work and power imbalance in Angel's family and in his afterlife<br/>• as I've said in the previous tw, sex work is oftentimes implied in a darker way. I'm sure that legalised sex work isn't like this, but we're in hell and I'm quite certain Angel is requested for more scenes he might ever feel like filming on a daily basis, which would be the main cause of his popularity.</p><p>Having said so, please do enjoy this story, and make sure to leave a short comment if you liked it! It really helps me get motivation to write more ^-^</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Strong, large hands held him tightly by the hips, the sharp nails digging into the soft flesh hidden by a thin veil of pink fur in a forceful attempt to keep him still on the couch, his three sets of arms tied tightly in front of his body, his wrists raw and dyeing the black rope magenta.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two other hands, just as large as those on the hips, groped his body, yanking the pale fur on his chest and scratching the tender skin underneath, the nails dragging down his body, wringing pained whines from his gagged lips as he lay on his back, his mouth now numb and bruised by the strip of thick cloth tied around his head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em><span>A deep voice moaned beside his ear disgusting words he couldn't hear, the fog in his mind overpowering the offending dirty talk with a chanting choir of stop </span></em><b><em>stop</em></b> <b><em>please</em></b> <b><em>stop</em></b><em><span> that no one would ever hear, his body hauled back and forth on the smooth leather by the sheer strength of the other's thrusts.</span></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't have a safeword for his clients; there had never been need for such formalities in Hell. He didn't need safewords or any kind of stop signals, he would like it by the end of it anyway, so why bother? That applied to all of his clients, particularly to the filthy rich ones, but it applied especially with Valentino, when wishing for the slightest sliver of control over the entire situation was considered either utterly ridiculous, or even terribly disrespectful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't want to be punished again, but somehow, he always managed to do or say something that would then warrant a beating or some other kind of bashing. It couldn't be considered torture, not really, but...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He felt detached from his body, and for a second, for an instant that felt like an eternity, he thought he was dying again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was irrational, there was no such thing as a second death for as long as his soul belonged to his Overlord, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his contract had been clear about that</span>
  <em>
    <span>, he just </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>couldn't</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> die again, but in spite of that, for fear had always been irrational, as it shall always be, tears had flooded his eyes, flowing down his face like polluted black rivers, the droplets slowly washing away the thick mascara and eyeliner he'd put on for that night's show.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The strong scent of laced cigarettes, rough leather and marijuana clogged his nostrils, giving him a headache, or was it caused by the drugs that had been forced into his system?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The hands on his hips tightened their grip, breaking the skin as sharp pain made its way through his dazed mind like heroine, and Angel forced himself to look up at the body who had been screwing him senseless for Satan knows how long, who had lifted the hands from his torso and moved them elsewhere.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Valentino smirked at him from between his legs, his bloody teeth glistening in the dim lights of his dressing room, as he bent his right leg closer to his chest, his other hand tightly gripping a long object that looked like a steel ruler. Was he going to hit him with that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was too late when he realised that what Valentino held was definitely not a ruler, and before he could even have the chance to move away, the kitchen knife had embedded itself deep in his chest, dyeing his fur in a bright shade of pink and slicing his skin like silk as it was dragged from between his clavicles down to his stomach.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Angel wanted to scream in agony, the pain overpowering the stupor in his mind, but his airways felt clogged; the cloth tied around his head, wet with spit and blood as it stuck to his tongue, was suffocating him, the sensation worsening as Valentino moved a hand around his throat, digging his fingers in the delicate flesh, and tears flowed freely from his eyes, the six lower orbs open wide and frenzied.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In his state, as his chest was cut open as if he were a corpse during an autopsy, his throat crushed in Valentino’s chokehold, the Overlord’s features were twisted in an expression that felt eerily familiar.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then, a hand caressed the long cut with the gentleness of a true lover, and before he had noticed, nimble fingers had snuck their way inside his skin, skirting around his ribs as if they were looking for something.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Actually, they </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>were</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> looking for something, and that thing was his heart.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The hand encased the palpitating muscle completely, and then it had tugged, his ribs giving in to the strength-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the middle of the night, in the quiet safe space of his room at the Hazbin Hotel, Angel Dust woke up screaming his lungs out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His six hands moved quickly and jerkily, gripping the fur and pressing on the skin of his neck and chest, frantically looking for scarred tissue and either fresh or matted blood, but finding none.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had taken him a few long minutes of loudly sobbing and soft biting from Fat Nuggets to realise that what he had experienced was nothing but a dream, his hands moving to his mouth and soothingly caressing his thin neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>... Who was he kidding, the first part of it was too familiar to be a considered just a figment of his imagination. He was a junkie and a whore, but he was pretty sure that being screwed multiple times on a daily basis, whether he liked it or not, high as a kite or sober as he could be, hadn’t made him develop a rape kink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That one was probably one of the kinks he wouldn't ever be able to get used to, but that was definitely more of an asset than a snag in his work. It made the scene much more realistic, and the viewers were always satisfied with his expressions and reactions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was just a part of his work, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lower set of hands slowly caressed the proof of the recent ordeal; the bandages around his hips that he had applied after washing away the long day of work with a scalding hot bath were still slightly damp. The gauze was dotted with faint traces of blood, the neon pink spots positioned exactly where his boss' hands had gripped and broken the skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not that his injury had changed anything at the studio, for the bright pink spills that still stained the sheets during his scenes, or when he was rented out by Val's customers and business partners apparently made the act more exciting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An added extra, Val had called it. It's something we're gonna exploit as much as we can so that you can make more green for daddy, and you can have your money and start paying off your debt. Many get off to the sight of blood, Angel cakes, and apparently, you can bleed prettily enough for a slut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His piglet bit his arm slightly harder, calling for his attention as he sat on Angel's lap, grunting and wriggling his tiny body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aw, Nuggie, were ya worried for daddy?” he cooed softly, his throat still hoarse from the screams.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was truly convenient that the hotel's walls were completely soundproof, but that was to be expected for a place that literally used to rent torture chambers out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He quickly thought about getting himself a glass of water to soothe his burning throat, but first he had to calm his pet down. He sure didn't want him to be worried and get all squealy, noisy, and shit, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he had spent the following twenty minutes on his knees beside the bed, scratching the pig's back and murmuring kind words to Fat Nuggets, the piglet lying under his comforter and slowly falling back asleep under the spider's warmth and care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as he'd been sure Fat Nuggets was deeply asleep, he'd slowly moved away from the bed and walked out of his room, his body covered only by an oversized long-ass white sweater, his thin legs clad in black thigh high socks with white dots, his trademark leather boots forgotten somewhere in his room to avoid the heels' sharp, noisy clatter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of the things he had always despised about his body, ever since he'd been reborn as a spider demon, were his legs, his fucking spider legs that bent in two places and ended with those fucking ugly feet – well, Molly liked to call them </span>
  <em>
    <span>“spider beans”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but those were fucking abominations so they truly didn't deserve a name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as Val had found him, he'd always made sure that no one would ever see his feet, so even during his films and photo shoots he had always worn some kind of thigh highs or sexy boots that covered them, and it's not like his fans had ever complained.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They cared more about his ass, chest and face – exactly in that order, that's why Val didn't mind punching his face in when he was really mad – than his feet, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>However, he had to admit they were extremely useful if one wanted to be stealthy, because they were light and soft, and they didn't make the slightest noise when walking on the dark red carpeting in the halls, nor on the cold tiles in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He made a beeline for the fridge, thanking Satan that Niffty had recently stocked up on the non-alcoholic drinks for Charlie and Vaggie, and he took out a small glass bottle that was dyed in a pretty shade of purple, with a yellow sticky note written with the Princess' neat and round calligraphy that read "Charlie's, please do NOT drink".</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He unscrewed the cap and sniffed it a little, and since it smelled kinda sweet and fruity, he shrugged and, seeing as there were at least five other identical bottles on the shelves, he closed the fridge and took a glass from the cupboard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cha-Cha wouldn't mind sharing, she was all about sharing-and-caring or some kinda bullshit like that, and he would prolly buy another bottle to refill the one he had taken.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn't exactly swimming in money all right, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the filthy rich Princess of Hell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the other hand, he was just a decently famous porn star that worked sixteen-hour shifts for a ridiculously low paycheck, and he couldn't even complain about it to his boss without risking his life, thanks to the fucking contract.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sat down at the kitchen table, pouring himself a glass of that purple drink and sloshing it a little in his pink cup, waiting for it to warm up a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was too cold to drink at- ah, three in the morning, absolutely wonderful, splendid, and there goes his precious and rare day off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was definitely too early to drink alcohol, and he really didn't want to see if Husk was still awake at three in the morning, drinking his disgusting cheap booze, – the cat didn't even like scotch, nor whiskey, and he thought bourbon and grappa were </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgusting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Angel liked him but he was the worst drunkard he'd ever met, really – nor did he want to have to deal with his drunken ramblings at three in the fucking morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had he mentioned that it was three in the fucking morning and that he fucking hated his life? Well, at least now he has.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He brought the glass to his mouth and let himself feel the coolness of the liquid on his lips, not drinking any of it yet as he thought about the reason he had left his bed for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first half of that nightmare had been terrifyingly familiar, and he knew the ghost of that touch would keep him awake for the rest of the night, definitely ruining his perfect day off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was aware he was safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was late at night, he was at the Hotel and no one would willingly touch him that way, since his only company were two lesbos, a schizo chick who thought him a woman, a vore fanatic who'd rather cut off your dick than eat it, and a pisshead drunkard of a cat, but he still felt the other's touch on his skin, and it burned like liquefied magma, slowly flowing in his veins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He'd honestly never felt that pathetic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The previous statement was actually a lie, he was aware. He was a sex worker, in Hell, and he had been alive, after all, and hadn't his life been pathetic and anticlimactic as fuck?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had always just followed his father's and his brother's orders, and he had always carried them on as efficiently as he could.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had chosen selfishly only twice in his life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time had been his limelight job with his sister, singing as a duo at the family’s cover-up restaurant during the late hours of the night, and even in his afterlife, he'd never come to regret it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Truth to be told, he often found himself daydreaming about those days, the shadow of a smile quirking his lip up, the words of his sister's favourite songs rolling off his tongue slightly off-tune, his throat roughened up and ruined by his job.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second choice he'd have made had been what he did during his monthly meetings with Valentino.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, hadn't that gone just swell?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Daddy dearest had found out about how much he liked dick, and suddenly he wasn't part of the family anymore, he wasn't a Ragni, he wasn't his youngest son, he was just a faggot who deserved a bullet between the eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>... It was funny that eventually his old man had actually ruined one of his eyes, as his rings had dug into the delicate tissue when the man had punched his face in during the umpteenth argument they had had in the last week of his life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their last argument, ever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking back to it, he was glad he had been too busy dissociating to notice the agonising throbbing, because apparently that kind of injury was usually quite horrifying to see.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had gone to the only person who wouldn't have minded helping his sorry ass, and what had he done? He had acted like a fucking idiot, downed two glasses of shitty liquor and chocked on a mouthful of fucking pills.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He moved the cup away from his lips, slamming it on the table, the liquid inside sloshing and spilling a little on his fingers that still held on tight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had always been so fucking pathetic, and Valentino had every right to fucking hate his guts, he was really too good to put up with all of Angel's bullshit, so why hadn't he got rid of him yet?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A cash-cow was only so good at their job up until a certain point after all, and he knew he was more trouble than he was worth. He was a parasite that only brought problems to whomever he leeched on. When he was alive, he had ruined his family, and now he was dragging down the gutter Val, Husk, Charlie and Vaggie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sob he hadn't even felt in his throat escaped from his lips, and, as if a knob had been turned, tears slid quickly down his cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He brought a hand to his mouth to stifle his noises, cursing himself because it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>three in the fucking morning</span>
  </em>
  <span>, couldn't he just stay quiet? Why did he have to be so fucking pathetic?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And there was the second half of the dream to still think about.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had never been stabbed in Hell, although even Alastor had tried to run him through with his microphone and his shadow tentacles – which, may I add, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kinky</span>
  </em>
  <span> – , but no one had ever managed to do something quite like what he had seen in his dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, he had a dreadful feeling of déjà-vu, as if that dream hadn't quite been the first time he had been cut open like that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, he couldn't do anything about it. He had been high as a kite for more than half of the time he had spent working at the Studio, so he couldn't be sure if the dream had just been a repeating of one of his overdosed hallucinations or... If it had actually happened when he was high.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>... It definitely couldn't be the latter, it would've left some kind of scar on his skin and there would've been blood everywhere and Val would've made him clean because he had made that mess after all and he'd definitely remember it, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>... </span>
  <em>
    <span>Right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He suddenly realised he hadn't done a good job at muffling his sobs earlier, if the three gentle knocks on the kitchen's door frame were anything to go by.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel, is that you?” Charlie asked, her voice a kind whisper in the dark. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as he had heard her voice, he had tried to regain his bearings as quickly as he could. He was used to it; it was kind of like putting makeup on a dark bruise, or practicing a magic trick, the change made swiftly as the audience was distracted by a rapid moment of the hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what are you doing here, missy?” he asked back, and his voice sounded like shit and he hadn't drunk that juice, like, at all, so his throat still ached like a bitch. “Did the wifey kick ya off the bed?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>sound dumb, be offensive, and she'll go away</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <em>
    <span> It works with most people.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too bad Charlie Magne, the Sweetheart Princess of Hell, wasn't exactly like most people.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was really weird for her to be up at three in the morning, though, being the only person in the entire hotel who actually had a decent sleep routine. She was still dressed in her dumb red tux, although the bowtie looked somewhat crooked and half-undone, and her white shirt was in dire need of an ironing. Her hair was a mess, her pale strands put together in the ugliest bun he had ever seen, and he had had lived with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Molly</span>
  </em>
  <span> for fuck's sake, the girl had needed both of her brothers to help her fix the mess on her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I fell asleep at the office, I was... Doing my job, you know, managing the hotel?” she giggled, albeit awkwardly, coyly scratching behind her head as she walked up to Angel, moving a chair and sitting down at the opposite end of the table, the backrest pressed to her chest and her legs spread on either side, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was at moments like this one that Angel really wondered why Charlie couldn't go to Heaven. She was the most committed demon Hell had ever seen, and she actually cared about the dumb hotel and the possibilities the project could offer if she were to succeed, and all the same she also cared about the staff as if they were family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An actual family, a regular family with people who did their best to care about one another either out of boredom, as Alastor often loudly claimed, definitely overcompensating since he was too emotionally constipated to admit that he had gradually grown fond of Charlie and Vaggie, or out of feelings that shouldn't even exist in a place like Hell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Love, affection, trust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That sure guilt tripped him </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, since he was in only for the free accomodation and meals.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But what are you doing here? I heard you, Angel... Were you crying?” and Angel had the mild idea of punching her in the face and bolt away to hide in his bedroom, but he knew better. Just because Charlie was kind, it didn't guarantee that she wouldn't fight back if he hurt her first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was the Princess of Hell, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You're actually in a relationship with Vaggie over there, right?” he muttered, glaring at his drink and vaguely gesturing to the door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Would it be rude to drink it while she talks? Oh fuck politeness we're in Hell for fuck's sake. But I low-key stole it from her stash. And she's sleep deprived. Will she burn me to a crisp if I drink it now? Can the contract bring me back if the Princess of Hell kills me? Hah maybe I should try?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He really wanted to smoke something, to ease his nerves nothing had ever done a better job than a blunt had always had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Does... Do you ever argue with her?” was what came out awkwardly from his mouth, his tongue stuffy and too thick in his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie looked taken aback, the question had definitely surprised her, and honestly, it had surprised Angel as well. What the fuck is wrong with him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course we do?” she said matter-of-factly, tapping twice on the table with her index. “Just because we're in a relationship, it doesn't mean that we never disagree. We sometimes have different ideas, and we discuss them freely.” she shrugged. “It's rare for it to ever become a full-on argument, but sometimes it happens and we apologise right away.” her hands slowly moved to the table, intertwining her fingers. “Why did you ask me that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To be fair, Angel didn't really know the reason behind that question. He hadn't thought much about it, the words had tumbled out his mouth almost involuntarily, as if they were a thought he had kept hidden even from himself for far too long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie's tired smile, encouraging and soothing all the same, wasn't helping his fragile fucked up conscience.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You once told us that the way we look in Hell is related to what we did when we were alive... Or how we died. So why is she...?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why is she a moth like Val. What do they have in common? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Were the words he still meant to say, but that remained caught in his throat like sticky spider webs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie looked once again taken aback by his questions, but she still tried to answer to the best of her capabilities.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course sinners look like this for a reason, it's not just for the aesthetic! Although I don't feel like making many examples to you because it might feel kind of private for someone... You're a spider because you had to kill to live, and you were trapped in the very reality you were born in, as if it were your personal cobweb, right?” and as chills ran down Angel's spine, he finally understood why Hell was both loved and feared by writers and poets throughout history. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Odi et amo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, once Catullus had said, and the same sentiment was hidden behind Charlie's kind glare, the Princess of Hell definitely not as uninformed as most of Hell's inhabitants had deemed her. “Sinners look like moths when they've either lived in pride or anger, and died in a pitiful way. Vaggie has... anger issues, as you might've witnessed multiple times, but we've been working on it, and she's already come a long way since we've started!” her gentle smile slightly shone brighter than it usually did during daytime. “But why did you ask me that, Angel?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Does she... Like, slap you sometimes?” he breathed out, and seeing the utter horror in her expression he quickly added “You know, tough love! Uhh, like, to make sure you don't do something wrong again. I mean. You know what, forget what I said, I didn't mean anything-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'm her girlfriend, not her dog, Angel.” she whispered, her expression marred with an emotion he couldn't quite name. “She doesn't hurt me, that's not how relationships work. We talk things out before they escalate, and we tell each other if something we do makes the other uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel.” her tone was urgent, strained with something he would almost recognise as concern, had they not been in Hell. “Does Valentino hurt you?” and this time she wanted a real answer, she wouldn't let this one-of-a-kind opportunity slip through her fingers like scalding hot sand in a summer day </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whaaa- No Chacha, you've got it all wrong!” he quickly denied, too strongly to be sincere. “He just- He has to! That's how he shows that he cares. I force him to act that way, you know? He's always upset after a punishment, and he always apologises-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“With the bags of drugs you keep stashed in your room?” how did she know- “He's literally giving you those to keep you complacent, Angel. He's doing it not because he cares, but because he wants you to keep depending on him, that's why we asked you to stop taking them as soon as you got to the hotel-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn't use them!” Angel wanted to scream, but he had grown up in a household where talking too loudly after midnight meant a harsh slap from a hand full of heavy golden jewelry, and certain habits stick even in death, so his voice wasn't any louder than a whisper, but his limbs moved nervously enough to pass the message all the same. “I didn't want to take any of those he gave me! I just keep them in the drawers... I really wanted to put them to use, sometimes, okay, fine. The withdrawals fucking sucked Charlie, but I didn't. You think I'm fucking stupid, that I don't know why he stuffs my drinks with drugs, slips them in my mouth when we fuck or just gives me certain drinks without telling me what they are before a scene and doesn't leave until I've drank it all? Do you think-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel you're bleeding!” when had Charlie moved to his side, what was she doing- his sides throbbed, and his right hand was drenched.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, his hand fucking stung.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cup he had nursed for the last fifteen minutes had been reduced to nothing but sharp shards, the grip of Angel's hands shattering it to the point of making its pieces truly impossible to pick up. Shit, Niffty was gonna get all psycho on him for the next few weeks, again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had fallen from the chair as well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how the fuck had he done that,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he had also probably teared his stitches, if the pink stains soaking through his white sweater weren't proof enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie looked like a worried crocerossina in a foxhole, looking after a wounded soldier who had just lost his leg during the War.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It felt somewhat flattering, and it brought up once again repressed memories of his sister, the only person who had ever cared enough about him to remove the bullets from his legs and bandage the stab wounds tight enough to help them heal in a week, tops.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get off Charls, «'tis but a flesh wound» or something, I've had worse shit okay.” his words were uncaring, but his voice was that of a brother who had been used to comforting others.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your blood...” her voice sounded so very sad. Had she never seen someone bleed? “It's pink.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. It wasn't the worst thing she could've said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, so what?” he'd tried to get up, but his legs still felt like jelly, or like that weird soft cake Alastor had cooked for them the previous week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie looked terribly miserable, he really should leave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Niffty has been finding pink drops everywhere in the last few days, but I'd played it off thinking it was some kind of milkshake, I- I'm so terribly sorry Angel-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop apologising for fuck's sake!” and something in his conscience told him that his voice had finally gotten too loud for half past three in the morning. “Go to bed, Charlie. I'm done here, goodnight.” and just like that, he left as quick as he could, his legs still so weak they couldn't even carry his entire weight, so he pathetically limped up the stairways while gripping the handrail for dear death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He went up to his room, finding Fat Nuggets as he paced in front of his door, as if he were waiting for his nevrotic owner to come back to rest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angel jumped face first on the bed, his hands gripping the fuzzy blankets tightly, his piglet waddling a step back and lying on the carpet by the bunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He threw a sidelong glance to the drawer he knew was full of drugs. Should he just take a pill, to help him get some dreamless rest?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then we'll meet up on Friday, okay Tonino? I only work half the night, it'd be awesome to have you around! Wear black, aight? In case papà finds you. And don't bring alcohol, the restaurant will provide! See yaaaa”</span>
  </em>
  <span> the voice note in his phone warned him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighed, moaning noisily in the throes of frustration.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he would do it on a different night.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, this is the end of the third part of this series. This took much longer than the other two because school was starting soon (it has actually recently started), and I had to revise last year's programme, since I'm facing the final exam in June and July and this year is bound to be Hell.</p><p>This is definitely gonna be revised again in the near future, so don't worry if the publication date keeps changing.</p><p>I'm sorry if the quality has greatly decreased, but I soon realized that I wasn't enjoying any draft I was writing so yeah, I'm gonna focus on school until the winter holidays.</p><p> </p><p>In case you wanna stay in contact with me, here is my <a href="https://twitter.com/spider___lilies?s=09">twitter account</a> and my <a href="https://spider---lilies.tumblr.com/">tumblr account</a></p><p>Thank you for reading this story, and see ya in the next piece! (which should belong to an entirely different fandom if everything goes well lmao) and please, make sure to leave a short comment if you liked this story! It really helps me get motivation to write more, and I kinda live off this kind of motivation by now</p></blockquote></div></div>
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